Nineteen

Claire

It feels so weird waking up, knowing what Teddy and I did last night. Was it the alcohol or all the nights of explicit sex talk on Skype culminating in us taking the next step? I always thought my first time undressing for a boy would be somewhere intimate, somewhere special, not sitting in a stranger’s house, breasts illuminated by the neon green camera light of my MacBook Pro.

But he was so into it. Like so into it. He kept saying, “God, you’re beautiful,” his eyes like saucers, as he studied every freckle, shadow, and curve of my body, as if so he could re-create my breasts at any moment in his mind.

It’s fascinating, to know that I have that kind of effect on a boy. My phone dings. It’s a message from Teddy.

Are you ok? Last night was so special.

Aw. He’s sweet.

Yes, I write back. Are you ok?

Never been better , he replies.

I laugh.

I swipe over to Insta, where my eyes boggle at the number of followers I have. It says I now have 520 followers, thanks to last night and the tagged posts from Jess and the girls. I click on some of my new followers.

The profiles of strung-out-looking men and creepy randos stare back at me. A few of them slide into my DMs, and hesitantly, I tap to read their messages to me.

I want my yellow fever cured now, writes Bob, 38, a carpenter from North Carolina.

Me love you long time! writes Derek.

I can do things to your sexy Asian body that you didn’t even know are possible , writes another.

On and on they go, gross messages that make me want to wash my eyes out and never turn my phone back on. I immediately close Insta—I am tempted to delete it altogether—and call Jess.

“Wei?” she answers, sounding like she’s half-asleep.

“Jess! I’m getting these sick disgusting DMs from rando creeps on my Insta!” I tell her.

Jess yawns. “Calm down,” she says. “Show me the messages.”

I tap back into Insta, screenshot the DMs, and send them to her. As I wait for her reply, I see that in the short span on our phone call, she’s already posted three pics of her lying in bed, talking to me on the phone, in her silk slip, dreamily looking into the cam, hashtag #aboutlastnight.

“This isn’t so bad. You should see the ones I get,” she says.

“How do I get them to unfollow me?” I ask.

“You don’t!” she snaps. “Look it’s not who follows you. All people care about is the number!”

For some reason, when Jess says this, it makes me think of my mom, and I miss her. But even my mom would draw the line at using slutty pics to attract followers. I scroll down on the tagged pics of me from last night and my toes curl with regret.

“Jess, I need you to delete the pics of me right now,” I say.

“No!” she exclaims. “I’m not doing that!”

My lungs fill with panic. “What do you mean you’re not doing that?” I ask. “I look like a cheap whore!” What if my parents see this? What if colleges?

“You look amazing,” Jess insists. “You rocked that dress.”

The phone shakes in my hand. “Jess, you’re not listening to me!” I all but scream. “I don’t want it out there!”

There’s a spell of silence, during which my stomach tightens into a knot as big as the mountain of dirty clothes sitting at my feet.

“Jess?” I ask.

I wait for her voice, and when it comes back on, it takes an entirely different tone.

“You know, you think you’re so above it all. Too good for English class, you gotta test out. Too precious for Instagram. Well, guess what? You’re not that special,” Jess yells. “I’ll do whatever the hell I want with my Insta. It’s my Insta.”

And just like that, she hangs up on me. I sit in bed, wondering what just happened. I stare at my phone. What should I do? Should I call her back? I want to call Teddy, but he’d be so upset if he saw my pics and the DMs from the creepy guys. For the first time it hits me, how utterly alone I am in this big foreign country.

Five minutes later, Jess calls me back. I wipe my eyes as I try to pull myself together and take the call.

“Fine,” Jess sighs. “I’ll delete them. But you owe me.”

I carry my pile of dirty clothes to the laundry room, dumping it onto the floor as I google “How to do laundry” on my phone. I snap a selfie of me sitting on the cold floor and post it on WeChat for my friends back home so they can see—this is my life now. I miss the simplicity of China, not having to deal with Instagram or followers (our WeChat accounts are not public). Thankfully, Jess took all the pics from last night off, but the stress and anxiety of this morning still lingers. What does she mean, I think I’m so “above it all”?

According to Google, the first step is to put your clothes in the machine. I dump my clothes into the washer in small batches, as Dani said, and put in the detergent. When I’m done, I stare at the control panel. Which button do I press?

Dani walks by as I’m trying to decide.

“Hey do you know which button I’m supposed to push?” I ask. She sighs at me, like, OMG, really? I ignore the judgment as she glances down at my clothes in the machine.

“You can’t just wash reds with whites,” she says. “You have to separate them. Haven’t you ever done laundry before?”

“No, I have not,” I inform her.

Dani mouths Wow. She starts pulling out my clothes and throwing them all on the floor.

“Hey!” I protest. “Those are expensive!”

“I don’t care how expensive they are. You still need to separate them,” she says. “Once it’s all separated, call me.”

I have no intention of calling her back. Instead, I sit down on the floor and YouTube “How to do laundry.”

Twenty-five minutes later, I’m still in the laundry room, studying my SAT book, while I wait for the load to finish, when Dani walks by. She glances at my piles of clothes on the floor and the roaring laundry machine, which I’ve successfully loaded by myself. She inspects the setting on the machine—cold wash, cotton, medium batch.

“Good,” she remarks.

As she’s about to leave, I close my book and offer a truce of sorts. “Hey, sorry for my friends yesterday. They can be . . .” I try to find the right word. “A bit much.”

Dani sits with the apology, then nods and points to my SAT book.

“You taking it soon?” she asks.

I tell her I’m studying for the placement exam to get out of my English class, but since I don’t know exactly what to study, I’m just reviewing the SAT book.

“Who do you have again?” she asks.

“Mr. Harvey.”

“Oh yeah, that guy’s useless. You should definitely try to get out,” she says. “But you shouldn’t use SAT stuff to prep.”

She goes to her room and comes back two minutes later with a syllabus from English III.

“How do you have this?” I ask. I thought she was in AP English.

“I . . . tutor a guy who’s in it,” she says. “They’re probably going to test you on how to analyze literature, since that’s what they’re mostly learning in English Three. Poems, narrative nonfiction, that sort of stuff.”

I take my phone out and snap a picture of the syllabus. “Thanks.” I smile, handing it back to her. “If I have any questions, I’ll come and ask you.”

She takes her time responding. The two of us listen to the roar of the washing machine while I worry if I might have overstepped. But then she says, “Okay.”

“Who do you tutor?” I ask.

She blushes. “Just some guy.”